Page 36 of Absolutely Not in Love
Maybe I’m not so mad at the old copper pipes after all.
For the next hour, Gracie moves through her apartment, gathering up anything she might need over the next week. Toiletries, her laptop and phone charger, her music stand and two enormous bins of cello music. We work together to carry it all over to my place, but we don’t say much as we do. I can’t tell if it’s because I’m nervous or she’s nervous, or if maybe she’s just trying hard not to be pissed that so many of her personal belongings are soaked. I’m already making a mental inventory of all the things I’m going to replace for her.
On the upside, if I wanted a chance to get to know Gracie better, this is definitely a way to do it. I meant it when I said I respected her desire not to date hockey players, and I won’t pressure her. That doesn’t mean I’m not hoping that getting to knowmewill change her mind.
Most of her clothes are wet, so we use both of her laundry baskets and the two I have in my apartment to gather her waterlogged wardrobe and haul it over to my laundry room.
With so much standing water, the disaster repair guys, who showed up right after Gracie got out of the shower, immediately cut the power to the apartment, so our next move is to clean out her fridge and freezer, which is a smaller task than I expected.
“This is embarrassingly sad,” Gracie says as she hands me the entire contents of her freezer, which only consists of two frozen pizzas and a box of macarons.
“You don’t cook much?” I ask her.
“Not as much as I would like.” She reaches into her refrigerator and pulls out a dozen eggs, setting them on the island behind her. “I cook more over the summer, but during the school year, by the time I get home at the end of the day, then teach lessons and sometimes even have rehearsal, I just want to eat whatever’s easiest. Sadly, that means it normally comes out of a to-go container or a box.”
Next to the eggs, she sets a container of blueberries, some vanilla yogurt, half a gallon of almond milk, and some roast beef deli meat. There are a few condiments in the door, but after checking expiration dates, she tosses those directly into the trash.
“That’s it?” I say. “Nothing else?”
She shrugs. “I was due for a trip to the store.”
A sudden—and probably ridiculous—desire to feed Gracie pops into my mind. She’s a grown woman. She doesn’t need me to feed her. But I can’t shake the vision of her coming home after a long day at school, kicking off her shoes, and coming into my kitchen where I’m already making her dinner, Bach’s cello suites playing in the background.
I imagine her slipping her arms around me, pressing her face into my chest, and a sharp longing pierces me from the inside out.
I had no idea I had this kind of fantasy, this yearning for domestic bliss, but it’s real and potent and I’m not sure I’ll be able to get past it if I don’t at least try to make it happen. And now I’ve been presented with a golden opportunity. Graciewillbe coming home to my apartment at the end of the day. I don’t want to seem creepy or overeager, but feeding her wouldn’t be that big a deal, would it?
I clear my throat, forcing my gaze back to Gracie, who has shifted her attention to her pantry. She pulls out a box of cereal and adds it to the pile on the counter, then pulls out a can of Pringles, popping off the lid and pulling out a healthy stack of chips.
She shoves two of them in her mouth at once, her eyes closing as she chews. “Oh my gosh. I think I forgot how hungry I was.”
I would not have guessed that Gracie shoving chips in her mouth would be sexy, but when her tongue darts out to lick some salt off her lip, attraction flares in my gut.
We’ve been talking over and around the sound of the industrial-sized shop vacs the disaster guys are using to suck the water out of Gracie’s bedroom, but with timing that couldn’t be better if it was scripted, the vacuums shut offjustin time for Gracie to hear my stomach grumble.
She grins. “Looks like we both missed dinner.” She holds out the can but snatches it back before I can grab one. “Except, wait. Are you even allowed to eat these? Don’t pro athletes have to follow a really strict diet?”
I wrap my fingers around her wrist, and pull her hand to my mouth, stealing the chip she’s holding in her fingers.
Her mouth pops open in surprise, and I smirk. “I can eat a chip or two. But come on. I can do better than Pringles.”
I pick up a stack of food from the counter and head to the door. Gracie quickly follows behind, stepping over the hose that’s stretched down the stairs and out the main door.
“Are you telling me you cook, Felix?” she says, her tone teasing. “Is that what’s happening here?”
Idocook, and I have every intention of making dinner for Gracie while she’s staying with me. But I’ll need time to plan for that. Right now, at almost nine p.m., takeout feels a lot easier.
“Would it surprise you if Idocook?” I ask as I add her food to my refrigerator.
“Probably not. But it might make me start searching your closets for hidden skeletons or dirty little secrets. There has to besomethingwrong with you, Felix.”
I turn around and flash her a smile. “Something besides the hockey?”
A touch of color warms her cheeks as she scoffs. “Obviously.”
“Idolike to cook,” I say. “But I was thinking takeout would be easier for tonight. Are you good with sushi?”
“Love it,” she says. “That sounds amazing, actually.”
